


Undone

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, drunk and sad Cooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Ashes lost, Alastair gets a little too drunk one evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> It's Tayla's "half-birthday" and she's an even bigger moo than Sunny. Someone Saint me. Two fics in a week.

Kevin’s ambling down the corridor, lost in his world of one, when he notices Alastair’s door left on the latch. The light’s on inside but there’s not the usual laughter that accompanies the youth around. Nor should there really be in the circumstances, but Alastair had fought his hardest in the test and got the runs to prove it. If anyone deserves to enjoy themselves, it’s him.

The South African knows what it’s like scoring a century for a losing side: the hopelessness and doubt that follows. He doesn’t want someone so young and new to the squad losing track of the bigger picture to those thoughts. They need players hungry for runs, not those terrified of scoring because they think themselves some jinx on victory.

He knocks quietly on the door, just in case the youth is sleeping. He had come up from the bar a while earlier, stumbling down the corridor with his brunette Lancastrian friend propping him up. There’s a light on inside and he thinks maybe Alastair has passed out – being a close friend of Freddie’s makes it entirely possible. Kevin pushes the door open just to see and turn the light off if he has (after checking he’s still _alive_ ) when he hears the clink of a glass bottle on tile.

“Chef?” Kevin enters the room, calling gently as he walks towards the bathroom. It’s the one light that’s on, but it’s bright enough to illuminate the mess of the bed opposite. It looks like Jimmy had put Alastair to bed, but the young batsman had gotten up in a hurry, flinging the duvet to the side and knocking pillows off the mattress.

The frown on the South African’s face turns to a bemused roll of his eyes as he swings around the doorframe to find Alastair squished against the wall beside the toilet. The seat is up, but the youth himself is all Kevin has to see to know how sick he’s been. Bile makes the corners of his mouth glisten and his eyes are stained red. Alastair sniffles pathetically; wincing as he washes away the sour taste of vomit with the bottle of vodka clutched in one hand.

“ _Oh_ , Chef,” Kevin sighs, trying not to sound too patronising. He’s been here before, drinking too much and letting himself down.  Occasionally someone would find him and clean him up – usually those people would become good friends. He wonders why Jimmy had even left the youth if he was _that_ drunk.

Alastair startles, gasping, and hits his head back against the wall in the motion. He groans, lethargically reaching up to sooth the injury, but using the hand holding the bottle. Kevin’s not sure if Alastair realises he’s just poured the spirit down his back and sighs again, stepping into the little bathroom and reaching to take the bottle.

“You’re a mess, kid,” he chuckles and pries the Englishman’s long fingers from the neck of the bottle. As soon as the thing is out of Alastair’s reach, he hugs his legs tight to his chest and continues sniffling and hangs his head against his knees. It dawns on Kevin that he’s not crying because he’s thrown up, but got to drunk in the first place _because_ of his mood.

Internally, the South African groans, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, and he rubs his palm over his short hair. This isn’t his kind of thing… barely knowing the youth yet finding himself the only comfort. He feels way out of his depth and contemplates retreating to find someone like Jimmy or Freddie who can deal with it. Yet he’s still reluctant to leave and can’t shake the thought that because he came here to congratulate Alastair he can’t just leave because things got _tough_. He wouldn’t be a cricketer today if he gave up easily.

The silence quickly becomes awkward, thought Alastair doesn’t really seem to notice. He remains, glass-like black eyes staring at the cream tiles, completely still other than an occasional shaky breath. Kevin’s gaze continually flickers between the youth and the floor, wondering what he can say. He’s yet to completely hone the skill of not letting a loss affect him and has always believed in practicing before preaching.

“How does it feel...? Winning the Ashes?” Alastair mumbles and when Kevin looks up again, that youthful face is gazing right at him. His eyes are still barely focused, glossy with yet-unshed tears.

Unsure if he should really reply, because it feels a bit like salt in the wound, Kevin sighs and rests back against the cold wall behind him. The memory of 2005 is still fresh in his mind – he had to keep it there during the travesty of this series. The jubilation of his maiden century, and knowing it had been him to bring that Urn home. The feeling isn’t born from arrogance as much as a deeply-rooted desire to be needed and relied upon. He’s pleased because he delivered, not so much achieved. With a little smile, he simply says, “Amazing.”

Alastair nods slowly, visibly unsatisfied with the response but not in the mood to press for more. Kevin purses his lips, scratches his head again and nudges the other man’s foot with his own.

“Hey,” he smiles again when he sees black eyes meet his once more. “You come to me when you win and I bet you, you’ll say the same.”

The youth scoffs bitterly. It must be hard to look that far into the future right now. This is only Alastair’s second Test series, and if he’s anything like Kevin was at that age, then he wants things now and desperately.

“It’ll come one day,” the South African continues, talking softly. “One day that win will come off your bat, I bet you.”

Alastair scoffs again, raising one hand to wipe his right eye with the back of his thumb. His shoulders keep on moving and Kevin scowls before he realises the man is heaving and jumps up seconds after Alastair twists and expels into the toilet.

He hovers at Alastair’s side, awkwardly rubbing his back until the Englishman slumps back to the floor. “I’m never drinking again,” he groans, head back and saliva running down his chin.

Kevin rolls his eyes, chuckling quietly. “Do you know how many times I’ve said that?”

The youth looks up at him strangely; his eyes much too deep for the state he’s in. He’s such a mess it’s hard to relate him to the fresh-faced near-teen who turned up in India. The one that for all intensive purposes had been called a prodigy; privately educated and mature beyond his years.

Something twists in Kevin’s gut and he sighs wistfully. “C’mon,” he says and flicks the toilet seat down. Alastair doesn’t move, remaining staring at him, and then at the hand offered to help him stand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Tentatively, the Englishman takes it. His fingers are oddly cool, which makes Kevin wonder if all of him is like that. He’s barely touched Alastair, but knows he rarely sweats. Even in the suffocating heat of the subcontinent, he had been fine whilst Kevin just had to _think_ of going outside and away from the bliss of air conditioning to need dry gloves.

Shaking his head to dispel the digression, Kevin pushes him to sit on the toilet before he turns to find the washcloth. Unsurprisingly, everything is neatly ordered: a far cry from his own bathroom.

“Why did you come here?”

Kevin glances over his shoulder. Alastair is still looking at him with those dark eyes that feel like he should understand what they’re saying. It’s odd and easy to dismiss as simply the youth’s drunkenness.

“To congratulate you,” he replies, returning to soak the white flannel is warm water. He turns around again, finding Alastair’s expression even deeper. He’s just drunk… that kind of drunk that appears philosophical in the absence of rational thought.

“Why did you stay?”

Kevin frowns as he bends down to wipe away the vomit, saliva and alcohol from the batsman’s face. A true reason eludes him. It could be anything from the responsibility of being a more senior player, to that unwillingness to step back from a challenge, to even that desire to be needed.

He conceals his internal awkwardness with appearing bemused. “You’re my teammate, Chef, of course I stayed.”

Alastair’s wets his clean lips like he’s about to say something but just as Kevin’s about to stand back up to rinse the flannel clean, he lunges forwards to nigh-on smash their mouths together. Kevin’s so stunned he doesn’t react until one cool-finger hand ghosts across his ear and the side of his head.

He jerks backwards, eyebrows tightly furrowed and holds the youth at an arms length. He’s lost for words where his mind is racing. There had been talk in India about Alastair. Things heard in corridors and things seen that were not meant to be seen. Kevin didn’t care who or what Alastair is interested in. He’s in no position to judge having explored with his own sex in South Africa, let alone what happened during nights drunk on victory and everything that was given to them nowadays. 

Alastair’s jaw tenses and his eyes drop to the floor. He starts to cry again, as Kevin continues to glower and ignore the voice in his head that tells him he should apologise. He didn’t do anything wrong! The Englishman opens his mouth and Kevin expects _him_ to apologise but instead the words that come out make his eyes widen.

“ _I love you_ ,” he mumbles with surprisingly sincerity. When he raises his eyes again, he looks at Kevin with that eeriness that he now understands. This isn’t a meaningless drunken confession, but a drunkenly confessed truth. “Since I first saw you, since South Africa, since the Ashes, since the Oval. _Meeting_ you only… you’re so…”

Kevin hovers like he’s petrified. The words wash over him and he wants to ignore them, brush them aside as nonsense but Alastair’s face is so honest and candid and innocent that it’s impossible. He’s crying like he knows what he’s doing is a mistake, but he keeps on talking.

“You’re amazing, Kev,” that hand reaches to touch him again and Kevin doesn’t get to decide to dodge it or not because it falls back to Alastair’s lap when it’s an inch away from his face. He curls in on himself, drawing his feet up onto the toilet seat and hugging his knees again. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

The South African slowly stands back up, dropping the dirty flannel into the sink. His fingers curl around the faux-marble countertop, gripping tight enough to make his knuckles pale as he thinks back… back to India when Alastair had first arrived. A hard task when Kevin’s main concern is himself. He remembers the youth as quiet but chirpy enough. He remembers catching that chocolate-brown gaze upon him and simply dismissing it as admiration, or awe. It’s not hard to label it as _love_ now… like some playground crush…  He remembers how giddy Alastair looked at the other end of the pitch. How every ‘well done’ or similar comment made him beam with blinding happiness.  It’s so obvious now, he can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner.

He turns back to see Alastair rubbing his cheeks dry with the back of a hand and it suddenly strikes him how delicate he is. A youth thrown into a Test squad prematurely, yet he performed and performed spectacularly. A youth that greatness had been thrust upon, but he had stood up under the weight and is carrying it deftly. Only today had he proved such worth, scoring a century in the face of defeat. He both impressed Kevin immensely and confused him… because here he is, stood over a crying teammate, not thinking of cheering him up, but burning with a need to _protect_. He finds himself not wanting Alastair to laugh to know he feels better but just to see his smile.

“Cooky,” he murmurs gently and ruffles the batsman’s long black hair. Like a cat, Alastair leans into the touch as he looks up, eyes so hopeful yet still fearful of what is to come. He has such a beautifully complex face, boyish despite the overwhelming masculine structure of his bones. It’s his eyes, Kevin supposes, large and dark, and maybe the softness of his lips too. It only confirms the feeling that’s taken root deep inside Kevin. This kid is special whether it’s concerning their sport or not. He hasn’t felt this need to protect for any other teammate before and certainly has never thought of anyone’s physical appearance in such a way. “I’ve noticed you.”

The smile he receives is so bright and genuine it’s hard to remember how drunk Alastair still is, but it’s just the thing Kevin wants. With those lips curled up and eyes shining with mirth, he is simply stunning and Kevin wants to keep him that way. He slides his hand down from the Englishman’s hair, to cup just under the sharp curve of his jaw.

Maybe he was close to begin with, or maybe he lowered himself without really noticing, Kevin doesn’t really care when Alastair leans to meet their lips again. It’s slower than before, gentler and more confident. The South African doesn’t tense or frown, but brushes his fingertips across the smooth flesh underneath them. Alastair hums, leaning into that hand again: a perfect angle to deepen the kiss. When those lips part, Kevin doesn’t hesitate to explore, forgetting the last couple of minutes. He regrets it when he tastes sourness and neat vodka.

“You taste like shit,” he mumbles, smiling and remaining only a breath away from another kiss.

He half expects Alastair to try for another, but the youth shies away, blushing like he’s let himself down. “Sorry.”

Kevin reaches for him, swiping his thumb against those lips, glossy with his own saliva now. Oddly, no thoughts cross his mind other than a simple wish to kiss the man again. “Brush your teeth,” he says, smiling cordially. Alastair all but jumps up, all thought of his sorrow overcome by elation. It’s sweet and Kevin chuckles to himself, hanging back and watching. He doesn’t know what will happen in the morning but that doesn’t seem so important right now.

Alastair turns back around with just a hint of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth that the South African wipes off with his thumb. “Let’s get you to bed.”


End file.
